


Feral

by hypnodisc



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Hannibal Lecter is will's father, Journalism, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, kuru (disease)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-05 23:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17928188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnodisc/pseuds/hypnodisc
Summary: When a case of Kuru uncovers a family connection that no-one had suspected, a young Will Graham, who will let any dog bite him as long as it loves him, finds Hannibal Lecter at the end of  his leash.





	1. The Full Story

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read, look up Kuru – it’s the degenerative cannibal disease you get from eating brains that essentially chews your brain into sponge while you lose control of your limbs and suffer bouts of uncontrollable laughter. I get a bit silly with my portrayal of dementia in this fic, so if you’re likely to be offended by that, then you’ve been warned. Everything else is tagged. Let’s have fun!

The first and last American-born sufferer of Kuru passed away in a Baltimore hospital. Her limbs thrashed weakly, drool both crusting her sunken cheeks and oozing into her airways. Her last breath that bubbled through a snot-filled nose sounded almost like a giggle.

Every lurid detail of her agonising decline was gleefully documented by the news media – her mind and body guttering like a candle assaulted under too many breaths.  The specifics of the woman’s sufferings eventually found its way onto the front pages, though they remained stubbornly mute on the subject of the woman’s true identity. For a name, they had only their own nicknames ( _BALTIMORE VAMPIRE_ , _THE MAN-EATER_ , and after one embarrassing 3AM coffee binge, _THE_ _ORGAN GRINDER_ ) On the matter of the disease’s origin, the press had to resort to obscene speculations in the absence of facts, offering leading questions to fuel the country’s imagination. The why, of course, but more importantly, who? Just whose brain had planted the seeds that flourished into disease? Whose ghost now shook her bones with a growing, deadly vengeance? In the sordid tale of laughing sickness; who was it, that was having the last laugh?

Mere hours after the ragged breaths faded to nothing, in spite of the hospital’s exasperatingly devoted adherence to doctor-patient confidentiality, thanks to the dogged persistence of a bright-eyed redheaded _Cannibal Correspondent_ , equipped with nothing but a handheld recording device and the moral compunctions of the psychos she herself claimed to be hunting, the cannibal connection was finally exposed. The real name was out there now, somewhere, but what really mattered was the headline:

_THE RIPPER’S WIFE!_

Never actually married, of course, but there it was; two years as a research assistant in Italy, a seat at the left hand of the esteemed doctor at so many of his now-infamous dinner parties, months of romantic operatic outings and bloody tableaux on the streets of Florence. _CANNIBAL FEAST FOR TWO_ and _LOVE AND MURDER_ and _SATAN’S SOUS-CHEF_. Not that one should speak ill of the dead, of course, but a headline’s a headline and everyone knows you can’t slander a corpse…

That woman must have married someone, though, it was clear from the name on the hospital register – _Mrs_ Graham. It was so maddeningly common a name. So soft on the palate – no hard consonants to bite down on. But, the name told a story, and Freddie Lounds loved a good story. _MRS GRAHAM-LECTER???_

The spotlight turned on the family, who selfishly refused to offer a statement, or even to show up on camera at all, despite best efforts ( _STAND BY YOUR MURDERER!?_ ). But what on earth were they doing now that their family skeleton had finally been unearthed? While the skeletal form of their own family was solemnly en-earthed? ( _KURU ZOMBIE VIRUS CONNECTION?!?!?)_ Where was the husband of the Ripper’s wife, and why would he not just bloody well smile solemnly for the camera, shake his head, and take his due as the lover of a known cannibal?

No matter how hard she harangued, the now-internationally renowned journalist could not get an answer ( _FBI STAYS SILENT ON CANNIBAL FAMILY_ ). The lips of Jack Crawford, pressed tightly at even the sight of her, spurred her on to greater heights of curiosity. She stooped to peer through darkened windows, eavesdropped on every FBI phone call, and bullied her way into the hospital records office once again only to find nothing but the name she had already so brilliantly procured. Even Lecter’s minders at the BSHCI, squeezed under the effect of too many free whiskeys at one of the nicest bars in town, would admit that he seemed to take in newspapers with an enhanced fervour, requesting article after article, but clipping and saving only a few. They all hungered for the same story that lurked intangibly behind the headlines. ( _RIPPER'S WIFE MEAL FOR THREE?!?!?!?!?!?!_ _MR AND MRS RIPPER… AND MR?!?!?!?!?1?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!111_ )

A name, a date of birth, and a date of death. The press churned these three facts in their stomachs, but they no longer satisfied. Gradually, under mounting interest, pictures emerged that offered glimpses of the life of the Ripper’s wife - photos of a gorgeous brunette with soft, round features and a charming pouting smile. Photos of that pout lolling open and an abscessed tongue. A thousand dollar necklace flattering a coquettish neckline. Sunken cheeks and a slender neck wasted to brittleness. Eyes glancing at the camera with a refined boredom. Eyes creased with hours of hysterical laughter, interspersed with wordless pleading.

But who were you pleading to? Did he know what you had done to yourself? What secrets lurked inside your brain before your sins rebelled to rip it into lifeless sponge? The husband held the true story, she was sure. Mr Graham. Mister Ripper’s wife. The hunt began.

That name. Graham. It irritated Freddie with its uselessness, its softness, its commonness. She wielded it recklessly to batter the FBI into submission, slipped it into drinks with young trainees, spun and warped it behind her eyes as she lay awake in the half darkness of her apartment, until she rolled out of bed at 6AM and spat it out into the dry sink like a curse. Her eyes latched on to it everywhere it appeared, like the face of a friend, like a buzzing mosquito, like the barrel of a gun that’s pointed right at you. Graham Graham Graham – the husband’s face loomed in her mind, behind a fogged glass. Every second she spent searching for him, calling out his name, a thousand unformed questions all at once erupting from her in the language of dreams. Endlessly, she searched and strained. Sleeplessly, she quested and cursed. She followed every lead, every gut feeling, every impulse as she drove, walked, dreamed, crawled under the orange streetlights, under the orange sun, hungry and hungry for the truth it seemed only Jack Crawford was blessed to know; the words that pressed his lips together until they turned white.

The light of her camera flash did not echo. Hunger weighed in her belly until she barely felt it. Felt only the itching under her eyelids and saliva that pooled thickly in her mouth, forcing her to swallow in a way that no longer felt automatic. As she turned her head, she felt the whole world disappear in her periphery, eyes now fixed with a single, interminable focus.

This Graham too old, that Graham married to someone else. Next Graham doesn’t know a thing - thought that zombie lady’s name was Lecter. This Graham has a family photo album she scans through without seeing. No, no, no. Not you. Another Graham slams the door in her face, but it’s not him, she asked the neighbours. She gossips with Grahams, searches houses, employment records. She’s a cop, she’s a social worker, she’s a long lost Graham. The word Graham has lost its meaning. She could tell a Graham just by looking. She despises every Graham, especially every wrong Graham for the wasted hours they cost her, on her journey to uncover the story that turned Jack Crawford into a wall of ice.

Parked outside another Graham, her chin turned to rest on her shoulder, hand moving listlessly in her lap to take notes. Recently moved, male name on the lease, Graham. No first name. Just Graham. Tiny, one floor, one bedroom. No car, but a double garage. Front door opens at 6:15 AM-

The story struck her then. All at once, it exploded, then imploded into a single point of glowing brilliance. A boy, closing the door gently behind him. The right age, the right face (Oh Jesus, that face!) and obliviously making Freddie’s career as he shuffled past the car wearing a full backpack ( _SCHOOLBOY SPAWN OF SIN!_ ), those gorgeous curls ( _CANNIBAL SON TAKES AFTER HIS MOTHER_ ) and a black eye ( _RIPPER SON VIOLENT AND OUT OF CONTROL_ No -  wait, better to go after the father – something about how the kid wishes he’d been raised by Lecter! And it wouldn’t even need that many question marks oh my god oh my god)

Although the street is empty, Freddie’s entire body is filled with a white hot urgency. To be first, to be right. To tower over Jack Crawford and dare him to try to block her again. To write her headline in the sky, and see world’s eyes lifted to her masterpiece. She’s going to show the world the full story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interesting punctuation (!?!?) is there to protect Freddie from being sued for libel.  
> I’ve started and not finished a lot of stories in my time, but I feel pretty good about this one – I’ve got a solid outline for once, instead of just writing unconnected fragments, and trying to get them all to join together. It’s going to be a pretty evil story all things considered, but I’ve already read all of the “Hannibal is Will’s dad” fics, and I’m still hungry for more. 
> 
> Please help me come up with Freddie’s headline (About poor Will in a shitty home wishing Hannibal was his dad), because that’s the theme and title for the next chapter, but I can’t quite get the wording right. I’m thinking something like, “better to be raised by a predator than a monster”, but that’s not quite in the headline style


	2. This be the verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's home life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.

Will only ever asked for a dog

In a house where hunger went unchecked, where begging for scraps met only apologies, Will learned never to ask for the things he needed. But he never learned how not to want.

He wanted a dog. Big round eyes which saw but didn’t try to understand. Blissful simplicity of emotion that would overpower his father’s complex, muted guilt and mother’s resentful terror. He wanted to call a name and hear the obedient animal bounding towards him. Sit, stay, speak, shut the fuck up. More than anything, he wanted something to be his and only his – the affections of a living being that could protect itself. That couldn’t be stolen or sold. That would follow him from boatyard to junkyard, come back to him every time he was yanked away by a chain at his throat, silently witness abandoned weeks of hunger and loneliness, truly miss him as the family packed up and left him behind with the trash and empty bottles.

So, when polite one-sided conversation turned to rough hands at the dinner table, forced eye contact and exasperated commands to speak, and when his father demanded to know what in the hell he thought he was playing at? What did he want with all that silent treatment bullshit? Then Will had only one answer. The only thing he knew how to ask for. Will only ever asked for a dog.

Sometimes, Will thought he might be a dog.

Cowering under the dinner table. Big round eyes wide open and ears cocked for danger. When the only words he heard were biting orders and conversations that went over his head, he gave up on speaking and only barked. With the door closed, he crawled along the bedroom floor, hands and knees scuffling in circles. His neck ached and his knees were bruised black so he curled at the foot of the bed, dreamt of a whole pack of warm bodies sleeping against him. Woke up cold and whined against his fists.

“You are not a damn dog!” they said. But what did they know? And just maybe they might like him better as a dog, when they gave up and told him to fuck off back to his room and he actually went, hands and knees.

The next day, he learned his lesson. Babbled apologies but didn’t beg. One last glance from his mother as she slammed the door, as he lay still, tears soaking the pillow, and then his dad, all gentle hands and apologetic eyes and nothing to say. He understood Will’s animal noises better than his words, anyway.

\--

When her hands had first started shaking, Will’s mother had gripped tighter onto the objects she held on to. A glass pressed between two hands, and determined eyes searching the shadows for an explanation.

Soon, the shadows found their way in, and she gripped tighter, nails digging in to the flesh of Will’s arm, as she hurried him under the table. They crouched together in their island of safety, and he couldn’t bring himself to catch her eye as she laughed.

When his father got home, he seemed pleased to discover them whispering together on the kitchen floor. But then Will looked, and really _looked_ , and he saw a sailor in a calm, black night, watching the lighthouse beacon flicker and fade. Saw him harden his features, set a course for dying hope, and get right down on the floor with them.

\--

At the hospital, he never left his wife’s side. When an orderly found her, fingers gripping spastically around her son’s throat while his father’s hands fluttered ineffectually around her shoulders, Will was sent away. The policewoman talked to him very gently and his voice was too hoarse, really, for barking, so instead he asked her if she had a dog.

Holly was so soft and well-behaved and listened so patiently when Will tried to teach her how to roll over. When his father arrived to tell him that his mother had died and it was time to go home, he wept so loudly and wholeheartedly that it seemed to stun all of them. His father spoke soothingly about moving house and funerals, but Will only had eyes for the dog, who looked back with nothing but curiosity.


	3. Sharks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack needs to ask a favour of Bill and Will Graham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you of the shark.  
> His teeth are sharp, his eyes are dark  
> Two black eyes and dark black thoughts  
> he has but one, but thinks it lots

The silence of an FBI waiting room was broken by the sound of Will’s stomach grumbling. His father startled guiltily, and peered out of the open door to see if anybody had heard it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?” he hissed. He sounded furious, but his hunched shoulders and red face betrayed his embarrassment. Afraid to get in trouble for not feeding his own son, though he hadn’t actually done it on purpose. He had opened the door to the new house, and sunk into the waiting darkness. Folded onto the ratty couch, its cool polyester shiny with wear against his cheek. Sent Will to fetch the groceries from the car, then closed his eyes and let sleep drown him.

Grief had held his head under that water for a long time, its currents pulling him from the couch to the fridge to the bathroom and back. Had taken away his will to eat, had fed his thirst like salt water. The living room was awash with empty cans and bottles. When was the last time he had – Oh hell, no wonder the boy was hungry.

When Bill Graham had set out to create their little family – to take good care of his blue-eyed girl and the tiny baby she carried readymade in her arms, he had been so sure. Had caught her easily with his rough charm and gentle hands. Had made them a home as best he could with his work at the dock and hers at the diner. He knew just what to say when she cried over her delicate fingers, turned rough with scrubbing dishes. Knew how to fix his face just so, when Will’s first words had been Mama, and no others seemed to be forthcoming. Had known with a sudden rush of certainty that the boy was his when the second words came, “Dada”, and knew in his heart that he would always do right by his son, rain or shine, come hell or high water. Knew it in his bones.

But the sea had chipped away at his belief, with the inevitability and violence of the tide carving away at the shoreline. With every slight, every rolled eye. Every time her actions had said what her mouth wouldn’t. Every bitter glance, every veiled insult, every time she had dared him to raise a fist to her. His kind hands were powerless to fix the problems he could not see, and could barely understand. He was carried away by the waves, the tide drawing back to reveal miles and miles of cleaned, empty sand. His happiness has died, his certainty was gone, and all he had left of the little family he had built was this strange boy, this little kid who never complained, and seemed to accept his neglect with an air of insouciance. 

Didn’t he ever get tired of being hungry? Had he forgotten how to call for his Dada? Yes, he supposed, the kid had largely regressed into yipping and barking these days. Some ploy, his wife had said, to get them to buy him a dog. Another fucking mouth to feed on top of his old back, and her too sick to work and school and bills and then she had fucking-- on top of it all.

There’s an argument outside, growing steadily louder and closer. “I don’t have time for this. Lecter knows something, you know he does. For all we know, he’s the orchestrator. I have to know what he knows.”

“This is just what he wants, Jack! I don’t know what he’s planning, but you can’t just give him everything he asks for. Let me take another run at him, you know that he and I-“

“What do I know about you and Lecter?” the male voice, Jack, interrupted. There was a pause, then indistinct murmuring. Bill turned to look at his son, then glanced away to study their reflections in the wide mirror. A near stranger stared back, with hollow cheeks and beard and – Jesus, he was getting old. The pair of them could have been strangers – they had nothing at all in common, from his curly hair to his sea grey eyes. Just a name – Will-and-Bill Bill-and-Will. He hadn’t asked, but she had insisted, perhaps as a ploy to bind them closer together. To prevent him from dashing her eggs against the ground. But now whenever he opened his mouth to speak to his son, he felt like he was speaking to himself. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Will.” “Will, you need to get your act together.” “Will, what do you want?” His vision blurred and he and Will were floating together in a chrome sea, surrounded by sharks. Somehow, he knew that sharks were attracted by movement, so he needed to stay still. He thought to strike out, away from danger, but he couldn’t tell which way was up, which way he needed to go. Beside him, Will seemed content to wait, eyeing the flickering predators with apathy.

Bill started, as suddenly an improbably tall man in a grey suit rounded the doorframe at full pace, shedding his hanger-on with irritation. Her red-lined mouth hung open with mute incredulity as the door slammed shut in her face. As the figure reached the mirror, he got the impression of flat black eyes, a snub nose, white teeth in a wide mouth.

“Jack Crawford.” He introduced himself, a good strong handshake, and not even a blink of annoyance when Will ducked to dodge the hand offered to him. “Thank you for coming in today. As you know, the recent string of Graham murders have given us reason to be concerned for your safety. The FBI believes that these murders may be connected to your name having appeared in the press. At this time, we would like to move young Will and yourself to a secure location, to keep you safe from the threat we know is out there.”

All at once, it was overwhelming. He knew, yes, of course he knew about the new serial murderer to bathe the streets of Baltimore in blood. This one was making his way through the phonebook, killing men with the surname of Graham. He had imagined it was revenge. Revenge against the _CANNIBAL FAMILY_ , against _MR RIPPER’S WIFE_. He’d kill them all, just to make sure he caught the right one in his net. A family member of one of the Ripper’s victims? Or just a person who really wanted to kill, and only needed a headline for an excuse.

“Yes. I--Yes, thank you. You’re right. Where-- Can you t-tell me where we’ll be staying?” But why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why did he need the FBI to summon him from his bed to tell him that his family was in danger?

“Not at this time,” Crawford’s reply. “However, I am also here to ask for your help.”

“I-- I already gave the officers all the information I have. I swear I had no i- idea about H-Hannibal Lecter. I don’t know-“ He saw Jack Crawford’s throat click with a swallow. His pupils expand to take in all of the light in the room. A deep breath through his flat nose. Blood in the water.

“On the matter of Hannibal Lecter, we believe that he holds information vital to catching the one responsible for these murders.”

“O-oh.” His mind raced through the possibilities. There could only be one reason that the head of the BAU would have brought the two of them to FBI headquarters to tell them that they were going into hiding. Will seemed to be holding his breath, his ankles locked behind the metal legs of the chair he sat on, as though to keep himself from being pulled away from it.

Bill Graham’s voice was soft with impotence. “Y-you want -  th-think that I can help - you?” All at once, Crawford’s face turned impatient, and his voice was sharp as he pointedly looked at Will.

“Hannibal Lecter has requested to see his son in exchange for the information.” Silence.

“In-n the- No. He’s t-t-too young to- no. Absol-lutely not.”

 “I’m sorry, Mr Graham, but I’m afraid that if we can’t get him to co-operate then many more lives will be put at risk.”

He was sand. He was drifting under water. He was drowning. He couldn’t bear to make the wrong decision, and Jack’s single-minded relentlessness was slicing through his wavering confidence. “Can’t you f-find an-nother way? H-he’s-“

“Mr Graham, there is a killer on the loose, right now. I need to do everything I can. Do you understand that?” Bill found himself nodding. Stopped. Looked to the mirror again where Jack floated among them, half-predator, half-man, weapon poised in his hand. To defend or-

“Are you… W-won’t it be dan-dangerous for him?” he argued weakly.

Jack’s face seemed to soften kindly, but from the small flinch to his right, Bill knew it couldn’t be genuine. On closer inspection, his mouth seemed to be doing a strange dance between warmth and vicious excitement, one corner jerkily twitching into a snarl, then back down into consolation.

“Bill, we’ve got him locked up good and tight. He won’t get out until we roll him out in a box.”

Will was shrinking. His muscles drawing up tight. Still, he didn’t ask. Didn’t say no. Wouldn’t even look at his father. “You hear that, Will? They need us to go and see Hannibal Lecter in prison. Mr Crawford wants us to help the FBI. What do you think?”

His boy pressed his lips tightly together, turned his face as far away from him as possible. Anxiety and frustration, and worst of all, embarrassment boiled in his gut. Will flinched bodily when Bill reached to grab his face, turn it toward him, hold it between two palms to look him in the eye.

“Come on, Will! Don’t you want to go and see your real Daddy?”

Across the table, Jack was shifting awkwardly, a hand jerking towards them, and then stopping. Will reluctantly met his father’s eyes. His face was clouded, and his eyes glistened with salt water.  Bill breathed deeply once, and studied his boy – the Ripper’s son. “Do you want to go and see Hannibal Lecter, Will?” He was only talking to himself. Will’s body was a trembling refusal. “What do you want? Yes or no?” There’s only one thing the boy ever wants.

“A dog? I’ll get you a dog?”

Between his palms, Will’s eyes flooded with fresh tears, but he could feel the tense little muscles in his shoulders relaxing in acquiescence.

“Fine, Jesus. I’ll get you a fucking dog. Jack, he’ll go and see Lecter for you.” An awkward pause. “I m-mean, I’ll go w-with him, right?” He gently pushed Will’s face away, letting him go, and awkwardly brushing at his shoulders.

“I think I s-should—I think he needs me in there with him, don’t you, Will?” He rested his hand on Will’s shoulder, while the boy blearily gazed in the direction of Jack Crawford. His breathing hitched slightly through his nose, but he seemed calm.

Crawford leant forward towards the boy, resting his fists on the interrogation table. Will’s eyes drifted somewhere in the vicinity of his collar. His voice was low and edged with tension.

“Will, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you safe, you hear me? Doctor Lecter is a very bad man, but I think that he can help us to catch another bad guy who’s still out there. You don’t have to listen to what he says to you, we just have to let him see you, then you can go back home, OK?” At Will’s stubborn silence, he turned back to Bill.

Home for the two of them was now an FBI safehouse. With Will’s face on the front cover of every crime rag in the country and now a new Graham turning up dead every other day, there could be no real home for either of them.

“Uhh.. y-yeah. You want to go t-tomorrow?” he asked, lifting his hand from Will, and rubbing it against his jeans, ready to shake hands.

“I want to go right now. As soon as possible,” came the reply. Bill Graham nodded once, and stood with a groan, reaching forward for a handshake. Crawford gave it a strong, single pump, before he gestured to the door. Bill reached down to clap his own palm on Will’s shoulder, who flinched forward and stumbled.

Bill Graham caught the eye of his reflection in the mirror. Locked in a diving cage in an ocean of sharks. Jack there with them holding a hunting spear, Will tiny and mute, studying his toes. Three heartbeats fluttering, until out of the darkness below their feet a fifty foot beast lurched, its eyes flat and black, teeth as big as a man, darting upward and swallowing the cage whole.

As they crossed the threshold of the interrogation room, Will’s stomach grumbled again, and neither man acknowledged it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this without an internet connection. You have no idea how long it took me to remember the american word for trainers (it's sneakers, I just checked) For a while, Will was wearing tennis shoes, which sounded much too classy, so I had to write around it. It's interesting how stupid I feel without the internet - like I'm missing a limb.


	4. Little lamb, who made thee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will descends into the BSHCI to meet his maker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> [The Two Trinities (1675-82), Murillo ](http://www.artbible.org/images/gallery/289_b.jpg)

Behind him towered a boundless wall of glass. Ahead, the grand staircase hall of London’s national gallery plunged sharply into the northern vestibule, beyond which stood a collection of Renaissance masterpieces. Outside of the windows spread a foggy morning, lit with the spirit of fresh sunlight. Above the staircase, Hannibal Lecter had hung in his mind palace an early renaissance work by Murillo. The two trinities glowed with inner light – the angelic figure of Christ linking the holy family of Mary and Joseph, faces frozen with looks of adoration and pride respectively, and the holy trinity – the holy spirit swooping triumphantly overhead with the majesty of God watching from on high, born up in the clouds by angels. With a smirk, he descended the stairs. The eyes of the Christ figure seemed to turn heavenwards, beseeching. His hand seemed to push away the zealous caress of his mother. The light that radiated from the figure of god seemed to dull with distance, until the face of Joseph seemed to shine more brightly, basking in the reflected glory of his son.

Still, he descended, stepping from worn marble to glowing waxed wood. Ahead of him hung a single miniature in extravagant gilt frame. From a distance, one could only just make out the shade of a boy, curly hair and pale face turned away from the camera. Closer, and Hannibal traced once more over the features of his son. More startling than even the black eye, were the other marks of abject suffering that eclipsed his youthful countenance. Pinched cheeks and shoulders hunched with the expectation of pain. A tiny boy weighed down by a heavy backpack and the sins of mankind. He had the air of a child soldier, a martyr, a sacrifice so empty of optimism that he could no longer bring himself to appeal to God.

With a thought, the green walls of the room turned to purple, so as to better bring out the bruise on the boy’s face. A captivating vignette of God’s abandonment of man. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven, indeed. He started to play a consolatory lullaby for his poor lost boy in the cool halls of the gallery. Behind him, Clarice was confiding in him her anxieties about her status as Jack Crawford’s newest delicate teacup, unable to prove her usefulness as a tool as long as she’s kept with the best china. It’s because you are a young woman, and he is Jack Crawford, he thought. As long as he loves his wife and begets no daughters, you will forever be fragile and precious to him. Irritation leaked into her voice as he rudely ignored her in favour of the single press cutting taped to his cell wall.

He stood at a distance from it, where the printer’s dots blurred into almost-life. In his mind, the frame was surrounded by so much empty space, and he indulgently fantasised about filling the gallery walls with Will. Will as Saint Sebastian, riddled with arrows but still alive, healed by divine grace. Will lit by hellfire, eyes bleak with witnessed suffering, stepping down past the figure of Beelzebub, toward a sky full of stars. Will- he tried to draw a smile onto the boy’s face, but could not do so with his imagination. He was unable to lift the head, or make it turn to face him. The eyes were a shadowed blur. Blue in colour, but little detail, and looking at something far away. How he longed to bring that face to his lips. Kiss every facet tenderly and learn every part. Peel back the surface and unearth those precious bones. Cut away at the bloody roots that fed that pitiful expression and then put the boy back to rights. Whole and smiling this time, with grateful eyes only for his true father-

Clarice was speaking rapidly, close to shouting, now. Impatience mixed with fear. He closed his eyes and saw her at his back, and Will ahead of him. She had come, intent on seducing him, he thought blandly. He rendered her now, in smooth coloured pencil, posturing in a plastic chair, knees pressed together and to the side, freshly combed hair, skirt suit in rustic, woven grey. Crisp white blouse cut rather low, and a slim gold chain that glinted in the overhead light. Where once there had been deep shadows cut under her cheekbones, his six years in captivity had done her some good, and her body had regained its strength and resilience. Cheeks shaded in healthy pink, eyes that had once brimmed with betrayal now regarded him slyly, as an easily categorised object of manipulation. The monster that had tortured her nights with endless screaming had been imprisoned and unmanned. She had bitten the inside of her lip, when she first saw him. It was charming, in a clumsy way, but not persuasive. He saw the clock ticking down in her eyes, just as it now ticked in the gallery. Today, he had noticed a kind of motherliness to her bearing. Spoiling the sharp line of her jacket with shoulders rounded with nervousness. She might do anything, tell him anything, he thought, to keep his son away from him.

But already, he could hear that she was too late – the party was arriving. The voice of an orderly was barely to be made out, but the script was always the same, so he heard it anyway. He was to be treated with the same caution as a nuclear bomb, a touch enough to set him off, his mere presence radiating sickness and fear. He imagined himself in a bunker, buried deep in the earth, a countdown ticking in his breast. They were to treat him with the utmost politeness, to avoid provoking his wrath. Beware the vicious beast, that would blindly destroy the whole earth to revenge upon a mere slight. But hark! What sacrifices they bring to sate him! Those light footsteps must belong to a little boy – a little quicker than the sure, wide strides of Jack Crawford, the soft squeak of the orderly’s sneakers and – heavy work boots. Steel toes. A third man, then. But those three paled into insignificance as he memorised each and every one of those short, echoing footfalls that signified his son descending to meet him in the bowels of the BSHCI.

He strained to find their scents – under the sophisticated spice of Clarice Starling’s new perfume, there arrived a jumble of novelty. With impatience settling in his stomach, he struggled to separate the sublime from the irrelevant, but to his disgust, the strongest smell that accompanied the footsteps was that of filthy, unwashed bodies. Acid on the breath that pointed to liver disease, and its culprit, cheap beer and whiskey, sharp in his throat. A hint of sickly sweet fever, oily hair, and clothes hastily picked off the floor. His chest expanded and contracted. There was no snow, but he felt the bite of cold, anyway. Echoes of a shivering, empty rage that fed on flickers of memory. The smell of dirt and fear and ketosis, and the foul stink of FBI coffee. The footsteps came to a halt behind him. Crawford Clearing his throat, the rest standing, watching in silent apprehension. In the silence, a piano echoed with another gentle lullaby. He bit his tongue in irritation, but suddenly, caught the scent of blood on the air, and turned around all at once.

Clarice had stood up, arms now unfolded, palms slightly raised at her waist. Eyes flickering from the boy back to him as if, in a moment, he might leap through the glass and attack. He thought he might one day draw the way her spine drew down to comfort the child in their midst, even as she straightened it to match Jack Crawford’s. He was there, too, up close to the glass, and directly under the light. Black eyes glared at the Chesapeake Ripper, lit with righteous indignation. Forced to consort with one freak, in order to catch another. He had put himself bodily between the cannibal and the child, though he hadn’t noticed the boy move forward and past him, drawn to Clarice’s inadvertently warm presence.

As the boy shuffled his first step out of Jack’s shadow, Hannibal took him in. His eyes were dim, roving endlessly, finding no place to rest. They were drawn to the warmth of Clarice, but, after a cursory examination, they turned down and away, his lonely footsteps halting, and turning towards the prisoner behind the glass. His face had a stubborn air to it, slim dark eyebrows used to drawing together in refusal. His mother’s round eyes, though the colour photo had not done them justice. They were a Lithuanian lake in winter, cut with trails of ice skates. Hannibal could not bear to look at them for more than a long moment, discordant strings rising in his ears and cutting through the echoing piano. With another breath, he catalogued the strong Lecter features- the wide Slavic cheekbones and narrow nose, the soft, round jaw of a Sforza. As for the lips, he couldn’t be sure, as they were both pulled in between the boy’s teeth.

Still, without a doubt, the boy belonged to him. Neck ringed with yellowing bruises, a hard line of purple under the left eye, but not too much swelling, Hannibal wanted to paint him in fine oils. A dark, academic pallet, as he radiated soulful martyrdom. An innocent amidst the spears of the night watch. Soul bruised and reaching out to be comforted. A young boy in white framed between two dark-eyed strangers who would not love him for want of compassion, turning his face instead to call out to the man who only _could_ not love him. Whose indifference was not a cruelty but an essence of his being. In the continuing silence, the boy matched his close scrutiny from the corner of his eye, seeming frightened, though he did not step back behind Jack Crawford.

Hannibal kept himself still, the moment hanging in the air for all of five seconds, until he allowed a polite smile to break over his face. “Inspector Crawford. Delightful to see your face once again.”

A look of fury crossed Crawford’s face, but he returned the greeting. “Doctor Lecter. This is-“ Here, he paused, seemingly lost for words. “This is… Will… Graham. We are allowing you this visit in exchange for information about the Graham murders. We’re going to be here for ten minutes, then we will leave and you will tell Agent Starling everything you know.”

Hannibal nodded in acquiescence. “Very well.” His eyes then dismissed Jack entirely and fell back onto his son. “Hello, Will.”

The boy’s eyes flickered almost to his face, but then went back to roving, filling every corner of his prison cell with careful attention. He no longer bit his lips, but did not speak.

“You’re a very brave boy to come all this way to help the police to catch their criminal. I’m very glad that you are here with me now. Are you feeling alright?”

His little eyebrows drew down briefly, and his face turned to the side, to examine the drawings hung over the bed.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that. I’m afraid that there is little I can do from inside this cell, but if there is any way at all that I can be of service, you need only ask.”

The boy swallowed at that, unmoving. Hannibal returned to staring, cataloguing every detail, every twitch of his fine features.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter. I come from a country in Eastern Europe called Lithuania. I, too, lost my father at a young age. Those drawings on the wall are from my time in Florence. Have you been to Florence, Will?”

Will shook his head lightly, eyes distant.

“It’s a beautiful place, every building is filled with history, and the food there is extraordinary. I would love to show you Florence, Will. Would you like to come with me?”

At that, the man in work boots seemed to bristle. Took two steps forward to grab Will’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to listen, Will, r-remember what Jack t-told you…”

Hannibal spared a glance for the rude interloper. “And you are…?”

“B-bill Graham. The boy’s f-father. You can’t-”

“Ah. I see,” he said with coldness, “Bill and Will Graham. Of course. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

With that, he crouched to kneel on the ground, returning his hungry stare to the boy, who seemed to bear up under the examination with rather more solemnity than seemed strictly normal for a seven year old. But of course, his genes would produce a marvel, that would flourish even without careful tending. His gaze was interrupted by the irritation of that man’s hand on Will’s shoulder, the rumpled body looming behind him. Hannibal’s eyes stared fixedly at where it rested possessively on faded cotton, causing Will to turn to watch it in the corner of his eye. When Hannibal cocked his head, Will’s eyes seemed to glaze over, his mouth parting to let out small, shallow breaths. His head turned almost drunkenly back to Hannibal, who was finally forced to look away as blue eyes bored into his. Instead, he looked up from the ground to take the measure of Bill Graham.

“That man is your father, you say? Of course, you have been living with him for seven long years. It’s quite natural for you to call him your father. But, if I might make a request? Now that I have found you, I would like to be a father figure to you. I would be delighted to call you my son.” No acknowledgement. Tense breaths, eyes fixed distantly. “Of course, you may call me as you like. Doctor Lecter if you must, though perhaps Papa, or Dad? My personal preference is for Daddy-“ At that, Jack flinched bodily, “…as that is what I called my own father before he was lost to me. Could you do that for me, Will? Would you please call me your Daddy?”

Jack’s entire body seemed to cringe, and Clarice sneered incredulously with disgust. But he had eyes only for his boy, who seemed to barely grasp that he was being asked to do something. He had started to lean back into his father’s grasp, but his face was filled with only disorientation.

He lowered his voice hypnotically. Quiet, and the boy seemed to strain to listen. “I want you to say Daddy, Will. Do this for me, and anything in the world, I will do my best to give you. Please.” He let the stillness of the room sink into the silence between them. He waited, neither demanding nor dismissive in the patient hush.

It was barely there, a breath on the air. “Daddy?” Entirely unexpected and absolutely joyous.

He would erase all of the boy’s history before this day. He had his son’s first word to him – the whisper echoing through the halls of his memory palace and lighting the bruise-purple gallery wall with adoring, ethereal light. It put the gentle lullaby that played in those halls to shame with its innocence and beauty. He abandoned the dark oil painting in his mind, instead lying his boy onto pools of shining blue silk, clothed in wisps of cloud and adoring flowers that caressed his skin. He let his pleased smile overtake his face, astonished to see it echoed exactly in the boy’s. His eyes narrowed curiously and were matched in a near-reflection.

It seemed that the look on Hannibal’s face had shredded the last of Jack’s patience, and he let out a growl, and stormed off, calling at the two Grahams to follow after him. Will stumbled as he was pulled, head lolling back to rest on Bill Graham’s arm as unsteady feet bore him back up the steps and into the sunlight. For a moment in the doorway, he was lit by the fluorescents above him, his eyes turned upward, hands pushing away at the gentle one that touched him, Jack’s face looking back down towards Hannibal, stern and proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’m really not into the daddy thing, which means it really works for me as a horror plot element. If you’re looking for the painting that appears at the beginning and end of this chapter, you can find it at the top of the chapter._
> 
> For the other paintings, we’ve got [Saint Sebastian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sebastia.jpg), healed by the power of God (That’s Will healed by Hannibal btw), and [the ending of Inferno, ](http://danteworlds.laits.utexas.edu/gallery/1222.jpg)where the only way out of hell is to descend to the very depths, past the devil’s waist (Is Hannibal Vergil or Satan? You decide.)
> 
> God, I love extended metaphors so much, but with Hannibal there’s too many different images I want to cram in, so I’m stuck with a nuclear bomb, [baroque dutch paintings](http://www.patz.com/images/night%20watch.jpg) and the holy trinities. That painting of the trinities is actually way too small, by the way, but I saw it a few days ago when I was writing the outline, and I was seeing Will in every painting of a boy by then, so I had to plop it in.  
>   
> I don’t want to go on too long here, but I want to explain why the Murillo painting appears at the beginning and the end of this story, especially because Will is also going to reimagine it in the next chapter. In the beginning, the painting represents the family as it might be. The image of a loving mother, proud father and Hannibal himself as god watching from on high (borne up by angels, if we really must fit Clarice into this extremely extended metaphor. He’s in prison and unable to descend to the mortal world). This works quite well, because Jesus is also supposed to be God’s son. Then, in his inimitable Hannibal-like way, he twists the image as he sinks down into the depths of his own mind via the stairs of his mind palace – in the painting, Jesus’ eyes are turned towards God because that’s where they’re supposed to be, but Hannibal sees it as Will beseeching God (him) for help, while simultaneously rejecting the love of his mother. Still, he is jealous of Bill Graham, seeing him lit by the reflected glory of Will while God just sort of ineffectually hovers overhead. Hannibal is kind of obsessed with the idea of a martyr-like will as Jesus, especially because Jesus sacrifices himself (see: Will’s becoming) and returns to his father, who also holds absolute power to heal and hear his prayers. At the end of the story, we have the same painting again, this time Will is rejecting the care of his father, who has taken on the role of Mary, and Jack now shines in Will’s reflected glory. In this version of the painting, there is no god above that shines down on Will, instead Hannibal watches from below (I don’t want to be patronising, but that makes him the devil.) The painting of Will in flowers and silk may be considered to be an erotic one, but it’s also interesting to bear in mind that he would be cherub-like in a blue sky – with this image, we can see that Hannibal no longer requires Jesus’ sacrifice and wishes him to already be with him in paradise.
> 
> Let me know if you want another elaborate explainer, on any topic. I’m super confident in my outline and characterisations, now, although I still can’t get a handle on commas, so we’re still working on it. 


	5. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's wrong with Will?

_“I would love to show you Florence, Will.”_

The world was grey and white. Sharp edges. The shadows were static, straight and precise crosshatching. Will had none below his feet. The streets were clean and empty of people. The sky was empty of clouds or sun. Will’s mind was empty of feeling. He felt his eyes lifted by the high columns and archways, and then up, up into the domes of his eye sockets. Blissfully dark in the slick, wet marble of his skull.

A blink, his eyes focused for a moment, heavy-lidded, but were carried away by the slow spinning of the world around him. He was upright but unsteady, a pillar in the middle of the road, top-heavy with exhaustion that weighed around his neck and light at the foot, where his ankles seemed to wobble every time his eyes jumped from shallow pitched roof to low doorframe to shuttered window to narrow, sneaking alleyway. Columns and streetlamps hurried past unfocused eyes, as the muddled architecture swam dizzyingly, rushing in his ears.

_“Would you like to come with me?”_

Only the pavement seemed to resist the whirlwind. Patient and regular, its smooth lines led Will forward, until his eyes came upon a jarring fixture; A great, solid wall of glass that divided the street in two, embedded deeply into the earth and seeming to spread through the shifting walls at either side. Will saw his reflection slide out of the crack in the ground as he approached. Its eyes blood red, a smile growing where he felt none on his own face. He tried to lift his lips to match those in the mirror, but his whole body felt sluggish and uncooperative. He thought he might feel less unstable, if he could just lay down now, on the ground, while the reflection smiled and the world span, but the red eyes held him upright with their gaze.

Their pupils dilated for a second, when without warning, a hand grabbed him roughly from behind. As pale as the marble walls. As smooth as the empty sky. It felt both ice cold and hot, almost tipping him off his own feet, and knocking the buildings around into a frenzied orbit that made his stomach lurch.

The hand was shaking. Or was he shaking? The whole world trembled in a violent earthquake. Without looking, he knew whose hand would shake so, gripping his shoulder tightly, long fingernails digging in. Above his reflection in the glass, he could see the white face of a ghost. Its eyes were furious, possessive. His legs were weak with dizziness and fear, his eyes drawn to the white-knuckled grip of the white hand. It began to squeeze and crush Will’s bones, squashing the breath out of him with a shooting agony. There was blood, and it seemed to light up in the eyes of his shadow, whose whole body began to sag like a painting in the rain, slithering downwards and towards him, forming new limbs below the smirking head, the figure of a crouching man. The face was no longer Will Graham, either. It gazed at him with hunger, while, at his other side, his mother began to cackle. Caught between them, and the swirling world around him, he could only turn his eyes to the empty sky.

The barren heavens yielded no reply, no comfort. His blood was black ink, dripping soundlessly between paving slabs, pooling beneath him to form a dark shadow, that reached yearningly for the glass. Throat tight with a silent scream, Will’s soul pleaded for the only thing it knew how to ask for. The eyes in the mirror, too, seemed to soften in supplication. In his peripheral vision, the dark, sketching shadows began to coalesce and close in on the two of them, tickling forward and then insinuating themselves onto the skin of the crouched figure. The sharp crosshatch grew and sparked until it resembled bristling fur, covering the entire body, black and hunched and eyes gazing at only him.

Although the glass wall stood between them, Will felt the magnetic pull to reach out and caress its face filled with sharp teeth and boundless devotion. Every breath seemed to twist up through his brain rather than into his lungs. A tornado of feathers that dizzied him and a high-pitched whistling that rose ever higher in his ears. He strove to keep the dog in the centre of his vision as the shadows converged upon them, the ripping agony of even the thought of leaving the animal behind compelling him to call out to it, in the language of dreams.

_“Daddy”_

He could scarcely bear it, as he was swept away and upwards by the spinning shadows that muddied and mingled to grey. He felt steps beneath his feet, but he could not resist as he was pulled higher and higher by the hand on his shoulder, leaving the dog alone in the dark so black that his presence could only be felt by the impression of staring red eyes that could not be seen.

\--

He startled awake in an unfamiliar room. A lofty office with walls covered in frames of sparkling bright glass and beaming wood. He was lying on a couch under a tall white window, covered with hazy white curtains. On the ground beside him was a short, stout bottle of orange juice and a candy bar wrapped in black and red plastic. He snatched them immediately to him, fumbling first with the wrapper of the candy bar, before jamming it into his face all at once. He raced to chew it, while simultaneously fighting with the top of the juice.

Glancing up, he saw his father and Jack Crawford sitting side-by-side at a desk. Jack was half-turned towards him in his chair, while his father was facing away, staring guiltily at his hands. Noticing Jack’s attention, Will gripped both his shaking hands tighter around the neck of the bottle, unwilling to relinquish it. The police inspector’s eyes rested on his for a long moment, before he pushed back his chair and started to approach. Will could only hold still as he drew nearer, but before he reached the sofa, the tall man kneeled before him. Large hands drew Will’s gently away from his body, and, holding them beneath his palms, smoothly twisted off the lid. Startled but still clutching the plastic, Will looked up into his face. It was so familiar – the small crease between the eyebrows, mouth in a stiff, straight line, radiating an obvious guilt – the apology he couldn’t bring himself to voice. Will heard it anyway, and crossly averted his eyes again, not daring to loosen his grip on the orange juice even to drink, until Jack stood up with a sigh.

He wondered what he would do to be allowed to fall back into that abyss. To even look upon the dog again through the panel of thick glass. Thought of sticking himself with slim, silver arrows, a pool of blood forming and reforming into that crooked shape with eyes that knew him. Turning the arrows onto a familiar face, and spilling that blackness until it could drown him. Thinks of his dog, leaping out from under the couch, snatching him painfully in his sharp-toothed jaws, and dragging him away into the dark, while he held on stubbornly, wrapped numb fingers into fur that burned him through to the bone.  

The juice vanished more slowly than the candy bar – by the time the bottle was empty, Clarice had slipped in through the heavy wood door, hovering anxiously.

“Sir, It’s the Graham killer. They’ve got another body. And Hannibal says-“ Jack’s eyes started to her, and she was stopped in her tracks.

Will imagined the freshly killed body of a fellow Graham, still and white. It bore the face of Bill Graham. Below the corpse, somewhere far away in Baltimore, a lake of blood was slowly spreading, seeking fellow-blood. From the walls, a thousand pairs of red eyes watched from behind frames of polished glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been gripped by writing fever. I go to bed at night, but wake up suddenly to write down “SEE A HELLHOUND THREE TIMES MEANS DEATH” and then turn over and go back to bed. Usually with worse spelling. But last night, the last line of the story came to me in a dream. I woke up terrified that I had failed to write it down and I had now forgotten it, but thank god I found it at the bottom of the document. Believe me, I am incredibly invested in getting there. One retroactive edit – one word, but it might confuse you if you read chapter two before today – Will was already born when his mother met his father. Incidentally, I read a grammar textbook about commas, but I just found myself arguing with the experts. Clearly, I’m wrong, but as long as it doesn’t irritate you, I’ll leave it as it is. :,,,,,)


	6. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice and Jack discuss the details of the case on the way to another crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An echo is a reflection in a dark glass.

When she was alive, Miriam Lass used to wear her blonde hair in a high ponytail. Clarice’s dark brown hair was cut in a blunt fringe, and hung loose to her shoulders. Lass never used to bother with makeup. Even when she was called in at four in the morning, Clarice’s lips bore a shock of crimson lipstick. Lass used to smell like coffee and antiperspirant. Clarice chewed gum to cover her breath and kept a bottle of perfume in her desk drawer. She rounded her vowels, stifled her roaring laughter, and that nickname, “guru” never once passed her lips. Still, when she knocked on the frame of the open office door, and Jack’s tired eyes rose to greet her, for a moment, she saw the reflection of Miriam Lass on his face.

On the way out to the parking lot, there was a moment of awkwardness as it transpired that, because they had been shuttled into the hospital under Jack’s watchful eye and in his car, the two civilians had no means to return to the police station, or to make their own way to the safehouse. Fortunately, Jack could always be relied on for his impatience, so Clarice quickly found herself bundled into the passenger seat, pulling away from the curb, abandoning both her own car, and the twin figures of Bill and Will Graham in the hospital carpark, a squad car on its way from the station to collect them.

Urgency weighed down Jack’s foot, as they accelerated towards another body. Two last week and three so far this week made five, which pushed them well into the category of spree killer. At least the category gave them something to work with – better than a series of violent deaths with no obvious motive. Spree killer meant the murders were likely not fuelled by some kind of personal grudge, but rather by the kind of punitive anger that strives to achieve some important goal. What that goal might be remained unclear – revenge, most likely, but the FBI could not yet discount the possibility of financial or even delusional motivations. It didn’t seem so long ago that they had reckoned with the Angel Maker after all.

Spree killer also meant they would find some kind of trigger, although that already seemed clear, with the name Graham ricocheting in the press from symbol of a perpetrator to the mark of a victim. The killings had started after the revelation about Mrs Graham, but before the photo of her son had found its way onto the front pages. This had to be significant somehow - the connection must have been with the cannibalism, or Mrs Graham’s personal history. That made the revenge angle seem more likely, but what on earth did the victims have to do with a poverty-stricken ex-socialite who had spent the last seven years in near-isolation?

Last week they’d had a middle aged schoolteacher and a part-time student bartender, both male, white, employed, middle-to-low income housing. All of the victims had seemed relatively ordinary. Aged 25-50. Two had had historic convictions for violent offenses, one for a public order violation, although for now, those details were not particularly statistically significant among victims of murder. In the end, the only thread that connected the four-, now five of them was a matching surname.

Already, the FBI had unearthed the files on every murdered-or-suspiciously-dead Graham in the last ten years to be re-examined. At least, the method was relatively unique in its extreme violence and post-mortem mutilations. The boys wouldn’t be wasting too much time in the archives looking for matches.

And a waste of time it would be, Clarice thought, staring blankly at the empty rearview mirror. Because the trigger was obvious. She clung onto it, even the other pieces of the murky puzzle danced from her grasp.

Jack, too, was silent. His lips a thin line as he darted through the lazy mid-afternoon traffic. Already, the tension that had reduced him to barking orders in the parking lot was drawing away from his shoulders, a stern, professional façade remaking his face into the Inspector Jack Crawford that Clarice had once known, before she became Miriam Lass’ pale replacement. Before he had lost every ounce of respect his bullishness had earned. Before he had become the kind of man that could drive away from Will Graham, to feast insatiate eyes on the body of his namesake.

Once the silence seemed to have filled Jack to the brim with his usual restless energy, he sought to fill the silence in turn with the sound of his own voice. “They send you details of the victim, yet?”

“Sure. Causasian male, Thirty-two, construction worker. Lived with a long-term girlfriend in a terraced house in east broadway.  Beaten with a heavy-bottomed saucepan, Killer washed it in the kitchen sink when he was done, left it to dry on the sideboard. An officer glanced into the kitchen sink and found it still bloody, pieces of skull caught in the sink trap.” At this she swallowed, not allowing her voice to waver.

Relentless, Jack interrupted. “They get any fingerprints on the murder weapon?

“Uh- no. No fingerprints, shoeprints or hair yet, but the techs are already at the scene. They, uh, they’re pretty sure it’s him. The post-mortem mutilations-“

“With a knife?”

“Right. The face was further disfigured shortly after death. The weapon – the knife was found near the body. Wiped down. Some signs of self-defense wounds on the arms and chest, but from the blood spatter, they think that he fell relatively quickly.”

“Bastard’s strong. And quiet. Which do you think came first, the washing up or the mutilations?”

“It’s hard to say. He hasn’t- I mean, we haven’t detected any attempts to clean up the crime scene before. We suspected the lack of prints at the other houses was due to the killer wearing gloves, but maybe this time he took ‘em off.”

“Yeah, or maybe he did the dishes with his gloves on. Dripped red soap bubbles all the way back out the door. Point of entry?”

“Uh- no soap. And- the back door, sir. The terrace’s got an alley behind, and a small back yard. Fence wasn’t too high to jump, and he picked the lock.”

“He lived alone?”

“Girlfriend out of town for the weekend, no close family nearby, no known enemies or problems with the law. Not related to any of the previous victims as far as they can work out, apart from the name.“

“Graham”, he muttered to himself with resigned disgust. Clarice made a noise of agreement in her throat. Perhaps, she thought coldly, the killer just couldn’t stand to hear that fucking name endlessly echoing in his ears. Graham Graham Graham. It seemed that most of her problems bore that name this month. Killer, Cannibal, Kid.

They seemed to have exhausted every topic of conversation. They were both weighed down by a heavy silence. Clarice shuffled with her handbag, fishing out a lipstick, leaning forward into the front windscreen to apply it.

Jack’s eyes caught hers in her reflection. “We’ll have the house under observation” he growled, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Clarice nodded once, sharply. Kept her eyes fixed on the road.

“I’ll- God damn it, I’ll tell them to watch real close.”

“They’ll have a fine view of the closed and locked front door. You’re going to tell them to peep through the windows, Jack?” she grimaced a little in disgust, hearing Lecter’s voice in her mouth. Bastard had talked for barely five minutes, and he was already worming his way back in. She’d ground away the southern twang, just as she thought she’d squashed the smug tone she’d inherited from the Ripper. But there he was again, coating her vowels and pointing her anger.

Jack tried to catch her eye again, speaking with a false earnestness that belied his lack of optimism. “They’ll watch through the windows if I tell them it’s necessary. And if at any point they find probable cause to-“

“You’re going to arrest the husband of the Ripper’s wife? Freddie Lounds will-“

“Freddie Lounds will keep her mouth shut. We’re bringing her in tomorrow under caution. I don’t know where she’s been getting those crime scene photos, but by publishing them, she’s directly interfering with an active investigation. We’re giving her a warning. As well as asking her a few questions with regards to a redheaded Graham relative, who was seen acting suspiciously, asking questions at the homes of two of the victims so far.”

“You know that was connected to the Kuru case, sir. It’s how she found out about-“

“What do I know about Freddie Lounds, agent?”

“Nothing, sir. Only, are you sure it’s the right course to threaten her? She’s got as much information about the Grahams of Baltimore as we do, probably more. We know she met one of the victims. She might have seen something. I just think-“

“I know how to deal with Freddie Lounds, Agent Starling. We’ll bring her in tomorrow.”

Clarice glanced at the mirror to see she had bitten off half of her lipstick, and rubbed her lips together harshly to spread the remainder. She wondered whether she looked as haggard as she felt, the ghostly reflection offering nothing but a white face framed by the darkness of dark hair and the car’s dim interior.

“What information did Lecter give you, Agent Starling?”

“I’m not sure, exactly, sir. A lot of riddles as usual. He requested the crime scene photos and I gave them to him, after he guessed some of the details accurately.”

“Guessed how?”

“Some of the specificities of the facial mutilations. And the quick bludgeoning. Lounds didn’t have a cause of death for sure, and nobody else knows anything, so he can’t have gotten it from the press.”

“Alright. So what else did he give you?”

“Told me to look into anyone who worked at the hospital where Mrs Graham died. I guess he might believe that the trigger was her death, not the coverage afterwards.”

 Jack turned at least two corners before he spoke. “And the riddles?”

“I’m not sure what they were. About redemption, I think. Maybe the killer thinks he’s redeeming someone?” The silence was shorter this time. Both of them imagining what kind of sin would need to be redeemed with so much blood sacrifice. “One more thing, before I left, he asked me what I would do if Will were my own child.”

“You think that’s relevant?”

“I think it’s relevant to our interests. Did you see his face in there? Lecter’s crazy about him.”

Jack’s face turned down into a snarl. “I told Chilton to beef up security. He’s not getting out, and next time we need his help, we’re not sending the kid.”

For the third time, Clarice felt herself responding with silence. In her head, she heard the feisty argumentative tone of Miriam Lass responding to Jack’s empty promises. “You know that’s crap, Crawford,” she would say, “You’d throw the boy into his cage if you thought it’d catch you your killer.”

Clarice felt that, in the half-light reflection in the driver side window, Jack Crawford heard it, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a bit frustrated with Clarice's voice, here. I was going for something a little vain, a little jealous, but strong-minded and extremely insightful.
> 
> In the end, we have to move forward, so I've left her as she is. Not good enough in terms of both my ability to depict her as a fictional character, and in terms of her view of herself.
> 
> Anyway, we'll go on with a bit more procedural drama in the next chapter, and I'll go on scattering clues for you to ponder over. I think the major weakness of this chapter was having to stuff so many details inside to help you solve the mystery. I'll stop that in the next chapter, and go back to being my vague self.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie Lounds gets brought in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confused myself with this chapter, trying to write two simultaneous scenes and compare them, but actually ending up with hot garbage that I couldn’t untangle, and had to start the chapter again. We’ve got one scene here, and I’ve moved the simultaneous scene to the next chapter. It feels good to get this one out of the way. I want to write Hannibal again. Chapter after next!

Dragged into an FBI interview room at 8 o’clock on Sunday morning, Freddie Lounds was furious. She had been awake for three hours already, but was sitting behind her computer in her pyjamas when the cops had come knocking. At least six of them. She had dressed in a hurry, but having had no time to do her makeup or hair, found herself stumbling out of the cop car looking like a wild thing. She could write the speculative headlines herself, if she wasn’t stuck in this goddamn interrogation room being forced to wait for Jack Crawford to finally deign to come and talk to her. _LOUNDS LOCKED UP_ , _DIRTY JOURNALISM_ , _FREDDIE LOUNDS SHOWS THE STRAIN UNDER POLICE PROBE_.

The worst part was the sluggish ticking of the watch on her wrist. Every morning she was supposed to wind the bloody thing, set it to the right time before leaving the house. Had to wind it just right, or it would wind down too fast, and she’d be thirty minutes early to a meeting apologising for running late. It was a familiar routine, comfortable. A peaceful five minutes in half-darkness, coaxing the mechanism until the rhythm was just right. It focused the mind and allowed Freddie to get her plans in order. But today, there had been no time. Cops, as a whole, tended not to tolerate their arrest-ees standing in their kitchen fiddling with a watch, so she had been rushed out of the door with a watch that lurched forward rather ponderously, and showed a time that was almost certainly not correct. She could sit here and wind the thing now, sure, but then she’d have to guess the current time and that was somehow worse. The thunderous ticking of a battery-operated clock in a nearby room nagged at her, as her watch drowsily tocked out of sync. Every five minutes or so, the two ticks would briefly synchronise, and echo through her bones, until they jarringly fell back out of rhythm and Freddie wished she had bonded with a more competent object. Why not a ring, or a goddamn oak bookshelf? Why did she have to put up with this watch’s bullshit, or else wear two watches and suffer the teasing of her colleagues. “I’ve got one for you. Why does Freddie Lounds wear two watches?”

Maddening inaccuracy of her beloved wristwatch aside, it was certainly still the morning, and she had plenty of time before her afternoon appointments. The only balm to her rage the knowledge that she could soon extract vengeance for the maddening injustice of being dragged away from her work just to be covertly threatened by a man who was breaking more laws than she was. Delicious headlines bubbled in her gut. _COLLUSION_ , _CORRUPTION_ , _EXPLOITATION,_ won’t somebody think of the children?

Freddie sat agitatedly in the interview room, a growing list of spiteful names to call Jack Crawford unfolding in her brain. Under the bare table, she crossed and uncrossed her booted ankles. She could barely stand to see her reflection across from her in the harsh blue lights. Bare faced, with freckles that rarely saw the light of day. And were those wrinkles? In the mirror, she traced the lines of anger that marred her forehead. Imagined Freddie Lounds’ retirement party when those deep lines were etched into her skin. In twenty years, would she be looking back at the time she spent agonising in this room with fondness? Would these be the sparkling moments of her career? Would the whole office come to say goodbye, when she left? They’d buy her a watch for a leaving present, she thought, those smug bastards.

When Jack finally deigned to appear, Freddie was just rounding off the final lines of her obituary. His unhurried movements were clearly designed to irritate her, but she gritted her jaw at it, anyway. The unbelievable arrogance-

“Good afternoon, Miss Lounds. My name is Jack Crawford. I am the head of-“

“Cut the theatrical crap, Crawford”, she snapped. The expression on Jack’s face was unphased, although she thought she might detect a tic of the jaw that could indicate his irritation, or maybe just his mouth carrying on with the script while his voice was stopped.

“I’m here. I know what you want, but it’s not going to work. You want to see this new headline I’m working on? It’s going to do great numbers. _FBI THREATENS REPORTER WITH ARREST CHARADE_. And when I’m done milking that one for every column inch I can squeeze out, I’m going to hit them with _FBI CRAWFORD IN KILLER COLLUSION_. Next time you introduce yourself with your name and rank, you’ll be doing it to a judge.”

Crawford didn’t blink. Stared her down, and she folded her arms in grim defiance. In a deadly slow and low voice, he hissed, “How about this one? _CANNIBAL-CRAZED JOUNALIST ARRESTED FOR INTERFERING IN GRAHAM KILLER INVESTIGATION_. We’ll hand out a couple of interviews at the station, “Oh! She was out of her mind. Talking about conspiracies and all that crap. Could barely speak straight”, then we’ll get those Graham families in. “Oh! I thought it seemed strange for a Graham relative to be showing up at our doorstep after all of that press. Turns out, she was just a crazy journalist _pretending_ to be looking for family. You know I let her in my house? I even showed her the family photo album? Terrible!”” With this, Jack seemed to really get into character, gesticulating and roaring at full volume. “And you know what will come up next in the last article of your career? It’ll be the part where you tell everyone that you were creeping around the homes of at least two victims in your second-favourite spree murders. Before they were killed. You know what that says to me?”

“Fuck you, Crawford. So I’m crazy, but I somehow found out the big secret the whole FBI was-“

“You know what that says to me?” He interrupted, this time in that low voice again. “That says to me that you are in over your head. You need to stop before this gets really serious and I have to take you in. The whole world saw those photos of the Graham victims. Now I’ve got sickos lining up to confess to these crimes. You’re lucky you didn’t give them a good view. And even though you’ve been somehow getting the murders on a plate, you still have to go on chasing after that Graham kid? Surely he’s got a right to privacy?”

Freddie’s anger hardened, and her face froze over. “Why don’t you tell me about the Graham kid, Inspector? You know, I heard something interesting about where you took him yesterday.”

Just like that, the tide was turned. She didn’t need the truth written on Jack’s face to know that nobody was supposed to find out. His eyes were widened in panic, flitting back and forward over her face, trying to read just how much she knew. Just as he opened his mouth to deny it, Freddie pounced on his hesitation.

“You never seen a security camera, Inspector? That hospital’s full of them. Good thing with all the psychos they keep in there. I wonder who he went in there to see? Think I should ask him?”

Nothing in Jack’s face or body language changed, but still, with those words, Jack’s air, that had been  that of a trapped animal, totally relaxed back into superiority.

“The whereabouts of the Graham family are no longer a matter of public record. Both have been taken to a safehouse for their protection. Looks like you won’t be able to ask them. I guess the only evidence you’ll have of your claims will be the word of an anonymous source and a blurry photo of a non-descript carpark. Your theories will have to wait until after the Graham Killer is caught.”

Freddie considered, felt the urgency of the watch ticking on her wrist. Knew that next week, she could afford to spar with Jack Crawford all goddamn day, but today the story of a lifetime was unfolding as they sat there trying to outwit each other. Came to the neatest trick she could play on this side of the interrogation table.

“Fine, I won’t publish anything more until I get an interview with the kid. And he can tell me why you brought him to the BSHCI.” Jack’s greedy eyes saw the offer that was clearly too good to be true. Turned it over and over like a heavy-bottomed frying pan in the evidence room, but couldn’t wait to figure out the catch. Thought about Will Graham, locked up tight in his FBI safehouse, with eyes on him at all hours. Thought about the crime that went unsolved while he was here dealing with a mere loudmouthed nuisance who had effectively surrendered already.

He glared sternly into her eyes. “We’ve got him locked away, Lounds. Stop chasing after Will Graham. That story is over. Dead end. Now.” And with that, he stormed away.

A second after he wrenched the door open, Freddie’s watch synchronised once again with the clock on the wall. The sound of the door slamming landed on a tick, but Freddie’s attention was focused wholly on reading the watch’s face. There was plenty of time. This whole charade couldn’t have taken more than an hour, so she could probably even stop back at her place to run a comb through her hair before making her appointment. Or at least set the stupid watch to rights.

As if in defiance, the watch ticked wildly for a few seconds, and then gave up the ghost altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops- Jack really did want to get information about the murdered Graham families, but he lost his famous temper once again. 
> 
> Anyway, how about that joke; Why does Freddie Lounds wear two watches?  
> "Well, because on one hand, she has a watch, but on the other hand, she has a watch”  
> “Because she works at double time”  
> “Because they're the only faces apart from her own she can stand to look at”  
> “Because one of them is for telling her what time it is on her home planet”  
> "Because she needs the extra time on her hands"
> 
> Let me know if you've got a better punchline. And the next chapter is not going to be twenty days away, I beat writers block by just throwing away the three-or-so thousand words I had written for this chapter and started again, and feel much better for it. Instead of feeling that constant irritation from not being able to continue, I suddenly feel confident again.


	8. He who shall teach the child to doubt...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the rotting grave shall ne'er get out  
> \- William Blake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning. All of them.

Bill Graham once again found himself waiting, shamefaced, within the walls of the BSHCI. The hospital corridor was strangely gloomy, where cheap strips of fluorescent lighting hung from pairs of painted chains, nearly black with dust – an ugly contrast to the elegant wood panelling and warm cream tile. It had been a cheap renovation, he thought. The hospital had once likely been lit by gas lanterns in burnished brass holders. But now, the sickly yellow lighting cast heavy black shadows over the hall, and sunk the doorways into pitch darkness. Bill tucked himself into the gloomy alcove of Chilton’s office.  Behind the heavy double doors, he could dimly hear the nasal tones of the doctor, shut away with his son. He didn’t hear a sound from Will, but the boy hadn’t spoken a word since yesterday. He was acting up again – resisting their return to the hospital right up until Bill had had to threaten the prospect of that fucking dog he had promised. He’d had to drag him in by the back of his neck, when he’d planted his feet at the gate, and refused to walk inside.

Will didn’t want to come back to the hospital that held his father; that was clear. But they had had no choice. That snake, Chilton had sidled up to them as soon as Jack’s back had been turned. Dripped poison in his ear. In that carpark, with no way to leave until the FBI came to collect them, he was tormented with a dispassionate summary of his many failings. The damage he might have inflicted on his own son by forcing him to face such evil at such a young age. The sidelong accusations of neglect. The insinuations about the bruises (It wasn’t him, alright? His wife, and then - the boy was probably just playing about like a dog and hurt himself). In those minutes that felt like years, Chilton summed up Bill Graham’s complete abdication of responsibility when it came to advocating for his own son. His grief, his dereliction, his alcoholism. And then the psychiatrist had offered to help him. Rather, to help his son.

He had refused. Of course. It was the wrong time, and Will was reluctant to speak even to his father (But he did manage to talk to his real father, didn’t he?) And anyway, they were to live in an FBI safehouse, would they even be allowed-

Then, Chilton had revealed with great pomposity the presence of the security cameras. Not just out there in the carpark. Everywhere. In the corridors. In the office. Outside the cells. There was complete, colour footage of the ordeal that Will had endured at the hands of the FBI, while his father had done nothing. What more evidence would he need to show that Bill Graham was an incompetent parent? That he shouldn’t be in charge of his boy’s wellbeing? That Will was better off without him?

With that, Bill Graham couldn’t help but agree.

And besides, he couldn’t help but think there really was something wrong with Will. That strange, stubborn, half-mute boy who spent all of his time in his own little world. As his father, he had tried to love him, teach him as much as he could, but the boy- he just wasn’t normal. He never listened. Never looked him in the eye. Refused to speak when he was spoken to. Maybe Chilton was right, and he was in need of a psychologist. Someone who was equipped to resolve the boy’s problems, which his father could barely apprehend.

His wife had been staunchly against it, before. She used to murmur about the evils of psychiatry. The dangers of the zombifying antipsychotics, the subversive power in the hands of the doctors, who could make you believe anything. Later on, she hadn’t even let Will leave the house. To protect him, she used to say. Keep him from prying eyes and interfering busybodies. She had even resisted going to the doctor for her own ailments, even when her muscles had become so weak she could barely stand. When the dementia had gotten so bad that she could scarcely articulate her own name, she had remembered that she feared and hated doctors.

Now, it was clear that her reluctance was linked to her previous connections with one doctor in particular. One who had caught her and kept her in a fishbowl, fed her with lies and hope and human body parts. She couldn’t bear to put her trust in another coldly professional face, when in every doctor she saw _him_.

Now Will’s fate was out of her hands, and his father needed to decide whether to sacrifice him to the greedy psychiatrist, or to withhold him and risk losing him altogether. Poor, vulnerable Will, cast adrift into a sea of arms and faces he would never be able to bear. Dear Will, dragged by the arm from home to home, paraded in front of the cameras as his every childish mannerism was set upon and picked over by the scavenging hordes, preserved forever in endless speculative articles. His face and name never forgotten. Psychoanalysed by every fumbling amateur and armchair psychologist. The intimate details of their family life laid bare before swarms of uncaring vultures.

Bill couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go home to an empty house, to watch his son’s forlorn expression on every news channel. Couldn’t moulder away by the phone, waiting to see if the boy would ever look for him. Couldn’t say goodbye to the love of his life and her only son in the short space of a month. Couldn’t bear the loss and the loneliness and the dereliction of his fatherly duty.

 So, he had agreed. Had dragged his son back into the dreaded hospital, handed him over to the smug doctor, stepped outside when prompted, as the heavy door was closed behind him with a click. He sank heavily to the tiled floor when no seats were immediately close at hand. Rested his head on his knees and strained to listen to the muted voices beyond the wall he was pressed against. His stomach was queasy, his eyes ached, his throat was thick as he swallowed again and again in the silence.

He wanted a fucking drink.

Minutes, maybe hours staring at the threadbare navy of his jeans. He thought he might have detected a raise in pitch of Dr Chilton’s voice. Possibly stress, probably a figment of his imagination. Still no sign or sound of Will. Every second he spent entombed in the shadow of the doorframe, Bill Graham felt his body withering. His breath became rough and ragged, tremors running through his arms as they were weighed down by imagined weakness. Tears pricked at his eyes, though they seemed to dry instantly in the stale hospital air. Every intake of breath felt like a critical choice. An excruciating life or death decision that he agonised over until autonomic functions seized his lungs and he was forced to endure another moment. And another.

He was startled by the approach of footsteps. Rushing to his feet awkwardly, pins and needles shooting through his legs, he was off balance with tunnel vision when Freddie Lounds rounded the corner ahead. She was unmistakable, a blur of orange hair and long, determined strides that clicked on the tiles in heeled boots.

She was escorted by a uniformed orderly, who was following behind her confident, hurried steps at a half-run. The irritated pursing of his lips was an expression often worn around the journalist, especially when faced with her own brand of unassailable, fearless determination that did not wait politely while one called ahead to the office, nor obeyed the common laws of politeness that one should not push ahead while your chaperone was trying to lock the security gate behind you.

Bill Graham did not want to meet with Freddie Lounds. Freddie Lounds was a predator. Insatiable, she would latch onto any rumour that floated past her and bleed it dry before discarding it for a new headline. Freddie Lounds had brazenly harassed and stalked his wife, had broken into her hospital room just to take a few sensational photographs that had haunted every corner of his life until she had ferreted out an even juicier morsel, plastering that bleak photo of Will all over the news, with her name proudly acknowledged right underneath.

Anger tried to spark in his gut, but he was paralysed, feeling almost like a ghost when her eyes slid over his face and dismissed him. She didn’t recognise him. How-? After she had wilfully crushed every part of his life in cold blood, forced him from his home, made a caricature of his family and prospered from the proceeds, she didn’t know him. After everything-

When she reached his alcove, Bill half-raised a hand to stop her, but without knocking, she barged past him and threw the heavy door open with a strength that belied her compact frame.  Briefly, his eyes flicked to the orderly for help, but then turned to the room beyond the open doorway.

It was an instant shock of adrenalin. He pushed past Lounds into the room to confirm what his eyes had taken in at a glance. Both Chilton and Will, kneeling on the floor. The man’s hand was heavy on the back of the boy’s neck, pressing his cheek to the doctor’s thigh, the other hand running smoothly through Will’s curly hair. The boy’s body, curled on his knees in a foetal position, was so impossibly tiny, his eyes so uncommonly wide and wet.

“W-w-what t-. Y-you s--“ his voice failed him, and he gestured mutely. Chilton turned with exaggerated calm from the boy to the crowd at the entrance. His false smile glinted in the shadows cast through the room, reflected in the glass frames of certificates that hung on every wall of the office.

“No need to be alarmed, Bill, I am merely trying some unconventional techniques. The boy thinks himself a dog, so I am allowing him to act out his fantasy under professional supervision.”

“w-Will is not a g-god-goddamn dog,” he said automatically. Will’s eyes were on his, dilated and questioning. “Is this wrong?” They asked. “Are you going to punish me? Tell Chilton to stop?” Bill barely knew himself. His instinct was to grab the boy and get out of there. Right then. Steal the two of them out into the open air where he could just think for a second away from the domineering, authoritative presence of the office. Away from the four pairs of eyes that now fixed on him.

Hadn’t they done the same thing at home? Let the boy carry on as he pleased so long as he did as he was told and stayed out of sight? Surely, if the doctor thought- But Will didn’t like to be touched. Would flinch away from Bill-

In the end, it was Chilton’s implacable calmness as he continued to comb his hands through Will’s hair, that convinced him to back down. It wasn’t really all that bad, he thought. Chilton had a prestigious reputation as a doctor, and nobody else in the room seemed to-

Seemingly sensing his capitulation, Chilton gradually released his grip on the boy, who jumped to his feet and scurried to a far corner. The doctor rose painfully with a groan, shaking out his legs before stepping forward to shake the hand of Freddie Lounds. With an exasperated glance at his watch, he dismissed the Graham family, demanding their return at the same time the following week. The silent threat hung at the end of his sentence. Or else.

The orderly escorted both of them to the entrance, Will pressing against the far wall of the corridor the whole way, keeping both his father and their escort in the corner of his vision at all times.

In the car, there was silence. Worse than silence, Will had mutely crawled into the back seat of the car, and had sunk into the footwell, out of sight of the rearview mirror. Tiny, hideous, choked noises-

In desperation, driving past a pet store, Bill had stopped the car. Called back to Will.

“Son? S-Shall we g-go and buy us a dog from in-n here? I’m sure they’ve got all k-kinds.”

There was no reply. Not even a change in the stuffy breathing from behind the seats. With a lump in his throat, he had continued driving, almost making it all the way to their old home before he remembered the safehouse. Sighing, he had turned back to the main road.

When they had reached the house, Will leapt out of the car before he had even cut the ignition, racing up the driveway and fumbling under the doormat for the key. He seemed to struggle with the lock, looking back over his shoulder with wide eyes, while blindly groping for the keyhole.

Bill deliberately slowed his movements, turning away from the boy, not wanting to feed the panic- His eyes fell on the white van parked across the street that housed at least two plainclothes officers at all times. They gazed out of the windows with boredom, seemingly unaffected by the Grahams’ strange arrival.

Behind him, he heard the door open, and Will disappear inside. The boy had left the door open, the key in the lock. With steps weighted by guilt, Bill approached the house.

The front door opened onto a wide hallway, lit by a high, square window at the opposite end. Will was hovering by the door to his bedroom, hand curled around the high brass handle.

“I’m s-so sorry about Doctor ch-Chilton, Will. We don’t need to g-go back. I p-promise.”

Will scowled at him with utter mistrust, shaking his head and scurrying away through the door. As it closed gently behind him, Bill found himself once again stood in a corridor, eyes fixed on the closed door, which hid his son. He wished he could reach out and –

But what exactly would he do? Help? Help how? Apologise again? Force his way into Will’s room, to do what? What good was he doing, exactly, as Will’s father?

Betrayed his trust, abandoned him to wallow in grief, chosen his mother’s happiness over his son’s, failed to protect him in every way. Held him still in the face of a monster, even as he fainted from hunger through your neglect. Handed him to Chilton-

Bill Graham collected a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen cabinet, and sank down to the floorboards outside Will’s room. The natural light quickly faded from the small window at the end of the hall, until all he could see was the dim blur of his white hands, and the glint of the glass. He cursed his cowardliness. His inability to open the door that stood within arm’s reach. He drank and drank, finding himself on his back in the hallway, head jerkily spinning as his eyes rolled. Straining to hear a sound from the bedroom. Was Will asleep? Was he alright? What if he needed his father in the night?

No. Will doesn’t need you. All you do is hurt him. You’re a curse. Everything you touch-

He’s better off without you.

The world is better off without you.

The bedroom door stayed closed until the next day – late in the afternoon. And Bill Graham would never help or harm his son again. Except with the sight of all that blood. The image that was burned into his son’s mind forever. The scream that brought four armed officers bursting through the front door.

“Dad!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Will. At least, things can only get better. And they will, for a given value of better.


End file.
